


Mitigation of the Mildly Miserable

by deervsheadlights



Series: Bare(d) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Body Image, Established Relationship, Good Boyfriend Steve Rogers, Implied Sexual Content, Internal Monologue, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Self-Worth Issues, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony-centric, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, where endgame doesn't exist and stevetony grow old together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Tony wakes up to the realization that not only is he getting old, but somewhere along the way, he has also put on a noteworthy amount of chub.Iron Man has a pouch.Wow.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Bare(d) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995436
Comments: 43
Kudos: 198





	Mitigation of the Mildly Miserable

**Author's Note:**

> because i love projecting onto my favorite characters and mcu tony WOULD be insecure about that particular development.
> 
> many thanks go out to [marvelonedc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelonedc/pseuds/marvelonedc/) who helped whip this bad boy into shape!

When Tony steps out of the shower, the mirror in the en-suite has fogged up with steam, its surface covered in a layer of white. 

What can he say? He likes his showers hot; scaldingly so, according to Steve, whom he spent the last shared shower with practicing a lot less sexy-time and a lot more wrestling for the temperature control than anticipated. That whole thing transpired notwithstanding the fact that FRIDAY could meddle with the settings just as well and with less effort – which she ended up doing, if only to force a compromise onto them. She averaged out their desired water temperatures and therefore rendered their increasingly slippery and hazardous shower spar useless. 

His complaints got stuck in his throat when Steve, still having him pinned against the tile as a side-effect of their play-fight, put all the energy he'd previously directed toward it now into a kiss more heated than the water had ever gotten.

Tony thought it a little strange that Steve would be squeamish about this particular thing, so he's been giving the matter some thought. Although he hasn't hinted at anything of the like as of yet, Tony figures it might be that for all that he can stand the heat no problem, his skin in a way responds to external sensations with the same intensity all his other senses do and is thus more sensitive than average. 

Hm. And here he assumed he knew everything there's to know. Strange, how even after all this time – is it really their ninth anniversary this year? _That's right, Boss_ – you find out new things you didn't even know were there for you to know nor thought to ask about. It's nice. 

Tony smiles, stupid and more lovestruck than is warranted at his age, at his currently non-existent reflection in the fog-covered bathroom mirror. He tucks the damp towel around his waist and drags a hand over his mouth, noticing stubble in places it's not supposed to be.

He meant to get a head-start on dressing up for dinner for once, but he should be able to get a quick shave in. After all, it is their monthly scheduled date; this is the one that, even when all others get canceled for one often super-heroing-related reason or another, will remain. It's _their_ day and Villain of the Week can wait. 

Never let it be said that Tony Stark doesn't go the extra mile and/or is cheap. 

Making quick work of it, Tony slathers some shaving cream on and grabs the smaller razor from his side of the sink, opting to get the fine-tuning done outside in the big bedroom mirror. It's a lot easier to spot the wayward hairs when he gets a closer look without the bathroom sink between him and the mirror.

It takes a while, but Tony's nearly groomed himself to perfection. He angles his face one particular way, arching his spine for no evident reason but dramatic effect as he shaves off a few of the less obvious offenders at the underside of his jaw. His towel gives up clinging to him entirely and surrenders to gravity, then – it's gradually been slipping loose for the past few minutes, so Tony keeps at his task and ignores it, now lying in a heap at his feet. 

When he's finally finished and satisfied with the results in front of him, he puts the razor down with the towel (Steve's going to bite his head off later), moving to retreat into the bathroom – and catches a glance of himself in the mirror.

Believe it or not, Tony isn't actually so vain as to check out his reflection every other day, and even less so with all clothes off. Especially out here, in front of the large, floor-to-ceiling mirror next to their walk-in closet, he'll be much more often caught only having a brief, final look at himself before leaving. It usually happens before events that call for a more fancy dress code, and he'll give everything (tie, collar, cufflinks, shirt buttons, jacket fit, pant seams, shoe polish, hair, face, ass) a quick once-over to make sure all's in order and ready to go. 

The only time he ever sees himself naked is in the bathroom mirror, and that one's only waist-high and somehow less intrusive. Plus, most of the time he's in the nude around here he is preoccupied with other things, i.e. Steve and his often respective nudity. 

So now, Tony turns, realizing that this is the first time in a long time he's getting a good look at himself, and he's– 

A lot less thrilled about this than he expected to be. 

Tony narrows his eyes at himself and stares harder, like that might change what he's seeing entirely.

Thing is, he's always liked most parts of himself. Sure, he's had to come to terms with the arc reactor and successive scarring, and about every other dude wants another inch or two on his dick, but all in all, Tony's been fine with what's been looking back at him from the mirror. 

Fine is an understatement, even. He's always liked flaunting certain parts of himself, flattering himself with something maybe a little too tight or cut too deep, and he knew people saw it and liked it and he liked _that_. It was a game just like sex was, in a way, because this was certainly part of it. 

And it was fun enough, when he was younger – and he's a lot of things, but that he isn't anymore – but it lost prevalence in favor of other things. Maybe it was part of him growing up, growing into this role he'd forged for himself in the cave, and that was fine. He'd nonetheless dress up occasionally, get particularly fancy or a little risqué when he dared, only now for outings and events at least tangentially related to Avengers business. 

Then, there was Steve and him, and if Tony thought there was one thing more unlikely than a wormhole opening up and an alien army coming down upon New York, this was, without any last shred of doubt, it. 

Yet somehow, it happened, and it kept happening, and it wouldn't stop happening. They had their ups and downs, probably more so than the regular couple, but Tony for one is giving them both a pass because they've got quite the shitload of baggage each but been putting the work in and coming out victorious regardless. 

So, with Steve being _Steve_ , yet still wanting and keeping him despite the greatest of odds, Tony's been getting… more comfortable. He knows that. He is very aware of that. 

Might be some part of his subconscious thinks itself safe now that he's finally not a bachelor in his forties anymore, even though Tony as a whole should know better and no cubic inch of his being should fall for these kinds of pretenses. It isn't safe; _he_ isn't safe, and therefore Tony should be the one always on edge about the next time he'll fuck up (because he will). If it all crashes and burns, Tony will be the one to have triggered the detonation, in one way or another, and that's why he shouldn't be–

That man staring back at him from the mirror like he's some idiot. A squishy, soft-around-the-middle idiot. 

He looks old. Tony knows he's starting down the path where he could get his picture put next to the Oxford Dictionary entry for _old (adj.), having lived for a long time;_ _no longer young_ and he's mostly made his peace with the fact that aging (read: slowing cell regeneration) is a trait of the human organism which he doesn't have the solution for yet – doesn't mean he's not working on it. 

But that's not the main focus of this frankly uncomfortable realization he's having, no. It is more focused on the softness of his chest, the receding definition in his calves, the first hint of love handles and the too-obvious pouch there by his stomach where he thinks he's had defined abs sometime ago. 

When Tony's gaze travels back up for a moment, he notices the telling ways of his nose being wrinkled and the corners of his mouth having turned very strictly downward. His frown is accentuated by already existing and increasingly prominent lines. He looks a little appalled. Mostly, though, he looks just the part of someone who's on the verge of hitting a late midlife crisis. Nice one, Stark. 

Tony can't help himself – a bit of sick wonder and disbelief claw their way into his chest. He looks back down, and, with no small amount of trepidation, reaches out with a hand. His palm smooths over the light bump of his stomach and then, he pulls at a fold of (what looks to be) mostly fat with his thumb and index finger. He jiggles the skin to check. Yup. No rock-hard abs there, as suspected. 

He drops his hands to his sides again, fingers digging angry half-moons into his palms as he continues to study himself, digging up every flaw with a gaze that has the edge of a scalpel, ready to pick out and analyze his innermost impurities. 

Tony knows there's not one particular moment from which he’s done everything wrong there was to be done wrong. Habits and Just-This-Onces are accumulative, and these are the results of a long-term study. One he had no idea he was doing, but here he is anyway. 

Tony knows that sometimes, he'd indulge a little too much.

Sometimes, there was a Caramel Mocha Latte, or double-cheeseburgers – three for Tony after Sam, the heathen, refused his second serving – or the pizza that's somehow always around the compound, or anything else that tickled his fancy. It doesn't help that his metabolism is slowing down – not to mention that this is just another in a whole slew of confused bodily mechanisms that are (to put it mildly) just done with his antics after fifty-and-then-some years of him ignoring their wails of agony. 

Tony knows that he has slacked off, just a little.

Sometimes, he'd feel like cuddling up to Steve and/or participating in a compound-wide movie night or just doing literally anything but getting a round of actual, honest cardio in. That wouldn't be so bad on its own, but then on other days his back or ankle or hip would hurt and he wouldn't feel up for any kind of endurance training, and then on others he'd feel under the weather or banged up from a recent day in the field–

And _then_ , of course, there's the matter of piloting Iron Man, which should be one of his main exercise routines anyway, right? Wrong. Most of the heavy lifting the suits can do on their own at this stage, and the times he is actually needed and in it are few and far in-between.

Iron Man, Tony Stark isn't the first super-powered name on the call sheet anymore, not since the Avengers have made a considerable amount of recruits which are highly capable and also don't have an assortment of other things on their plate. Like, say, running the R&D department of the country's leading company in tech and many things more and in the meantime also making sure to provide the Avengers on active duty with a constant stream of updates and upgrades to their equipment. 

Yeah, most of what he's doing these days isn't considered physical exercise in the traditional sense. 

Finally, after a few relatively relaxed but maybe a little too comfortable years, it has all accumulated to form… this. Him, Tony Stark of the present day, who is looking soft and vulnerable and not at all like he can hold his own in a fight against Villain of the Week. 

They're now selling a (very obviously) Avengers-knock off pin-up calendar at Convenience Store That Shan't Be Named – don't ask him why it caught his eye or what he was even doing there – and people really have a very specific image of what a man in the business looks like. Large, imposing, hunk of a guy. A Thor, or a Steve. That's considered Bonnie Tyler "I Need A Hero"-esque. 

And by these standards, Tony "Squishy, Sad and Saggy" Stark isn't cut out for the superhero gig. Not even by a long shot. Maybe Natasha should've put that in her evaluation of him instead. Tony scoffs. Well, back then, he'd have probably still passed the bar, so it's no use. 

Tony bites his lip. Then, in spite of everything telling him not to, he rotates where he's standing and looks over his shoulder. Huh. Yeah, well, can't expect your ass to look like it did three decades ago, but… he's still up to par in that department. It's presumably only thanks to all those thousands of squats he's done that it has sustained as little damage as it has – one good news in a fuckton of bad ones. He'll take what he can get. 

Tony lifts both his hands to his hips and turns back around, maybe digging his fingers harder than necessary into the equally soft flesh there. 

It's still… bad. It feels as if it's not his, any of this. He doesn't know if he wants it, or if he has the willpower to get rid of it. Maybe he should just get this whole damn thing over with and propose to Steve now (as opposed to on their anniversary) so the guy won't change his mind and run while he's still able to in the meantime. He'll probably feel too guilty to divorce him after he witnesses all that money going into a wedding extravaganza meant to befit a Stark, right?

Thing is, Steve must've noticed. This, all of it. He's attentive like no one else Tony's ever known and he loves with the same single-mindedness he does everything else. His every sense is attuned to Tony and even more so during a tumble in the sheets – there's no way he wouldn't have noticed. The folds, the pouch, the bumps. The many unflattering angles at which aforementioned failings of his appearance happen to look even worse.

He has noticed. That's obvious. Why hasn't he said anything, though? Tony would've probably been hurt in his pride, but at least he'd have known, right? He could've done something about it. So Steve– Steve wouldn't have to get any ideas, like suddenly realizing how maybe Tony isn't actually all that attractive anymore, how all that prowess and pretended youth is gone and has left him with a jaded and tired old man whose quirks and shortcomings are no longer painted over by some pretty/handsome façade that would make him easy on the eyes if nothing else. 

No, Tony can't blind anyone anymore. Those days are over. He just wants– he wants someone to stay without having to blind them, stupid as it sounds. And although Steve has been that someone for those last, blissful years, it doesn't mean he can't still slip through Tony's fingers. It happened before, it can happen again. 

With a start, Tony realizes there's tears pricking in his eyes. His face is pulling a grimace, something pathetic and ugly that doesn't help his situation, and he's still standing there, bits of shaving cream framing his pinched expression, naked and frighteningly fragile–

The door swings open and Steve, of course, decides to come striding in right this moment. Tony keeps his eyes glued to the mirror even as his body grows rigid at the first hint of the other man approaching.

There's a casual, cheery familiarity in his tone as he says, "Honey? FRIDAY said you wanted me to–" 

The words and their unfinished (but obviously not relating to the _actual_ matter) message make way for silence as quick as they came. Both of them are long past those early stages of being fazed at one another's nudity, so that's not it. 

Steve halts in his step and observes, the easy air about him gone as he takes the scene in. Tony might not be able to see him, but he knows it's this moment that his expression shifts into something equally puzzled and concerned, brows knitting and jaw squaring. 

Maybe he's spotted the not-tears in Tony's eyes, or the way he's frowning at his too-big reflection in the too-big mirror, or just the cloud of general misery hanging in the room that is concentrated especially densely in Tony's vicinity. 

And then there Steve's reflection appears next to him in the mirror, in all his date-night-ready glory, Tony's favorite sapphire shirt stretching over those shoulders (although he's just as attractive in partially sweat-soaked gym gear or just sporting sweatpants and a bedhead) and Tony just… Tony doesn't _get_ it. He's had a merry ol' time coming to grips with his attraction – both sexual and romantic – to Steve being reciprocated, but the sight of them side by side in the mirror like this throws him for a loop in spite of it all. 

Tony is aware there are many younger men who like a dad bod (he's not a cultural reject, thank you very much) and some fluff, but this is just sad. Like, this scenario right here could be part of some bad, amateur porn where he's about to pay the young, gorgeous specimen for a pity-fuck.

Steve is and has always been so far out of his league it's not only tragically hilarious but also mildly concerning. 

Maybe Steve should schedule an appointment with Erica again; yeah, he should bring that up. Visiting a therapist on the regular can be help- and insightful even when you're currently feeling level. And then maybe Steve can discuss what underlying self-worth issues are making him sell himself short to the point of getting stuck with someone in Tony's ballpit of desirability. Because honestly, there's nothing much left of that _People's Sexiest Man Alive_ title he prided himself on in the shitty first half of the 2000s.

Right. And Steve should get treated for his lacking self-worth? Tony snorts. God, he's fucked up. What is he even thinking? 

They're going to be late because of his unannounced emotional unraveling, and Steve's going to be fucking annoyed with him because he's not only got a boyfriend who's twenty plus years _and_ excess pounds below his league but also always getting on his nerves and it _isn't_ as cute as it was a few years ago–

Arms wrap around him and settle at his hips, and Tony knows the shape of the man that presses up against his back maybe better than he knows his own (or knew, until just recently, and isn't everything so much more fun now that he does). 

"Whatever you're thinking, Tony, stop. Please," he says, voice very quiet and strikingly level in a way that betrays that there's emotion there that he has locked away somewhere within. 

That somewhere is visible through his eyes, and there's a certain disappointment, guilt and anger in them that Tony neither knows what to do nor wants anything to do with. 

Maybe– he should be angry. Instead. Yeah. How about that, huh? _Stop thinking about it._ Like that's going to make it all just, what, disappear? Poof. Gone, only a cloud of magic _fucking_ fairy dust left to prove anything was ever there at all. 

Fairy dust; right. He is in a gay relationship, so societal stereotypes dictate that he should be able to manage at least something vaguely glitter-related. He can be damn glamorous if he wants to. Maybe he'll put a glitter dispenser into the suit and then whenever he's doubting his role in this relationship or angry at himself for letting himself go or just generally disgruntled about his momentary state of being – maybe then he can shoot a cloud of pretend fairy dust and it'll all be gone just like–

"If I ever– made you feel less, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, and I never would," Steve says firmly, once again cutting through Tony's internal ramblings. 

His voice has an edge to it, laced with something that Tony now, as he listens closer, realizes is not anger directed at him but Steve himself. The other man is rubbing his thumbs in even circles over the raised skin above Tony’s hip bones – two bumps that are significantly less prominent than they were the last time he checked. 

He automatically begins to shake his head to himself in response to Steve's words, small, almost unnoticeable movements that in spite of their nature don't go by Steve even for a moment, perceptive as he is. 

"Okay. Because if this is… if this is what I think it is, then I want you to know that I have never, not even for a second, considered you to be below my–my league or any of those things going through your head right now." 

Steve's hands move over his stomach, and Tony's ears are burning because the other man's warm breath is grazing his skin and _not_ because he's deeply mortified about just the knowledge that Steve feels that same sensation that greeted Tony when he put his hands there. It's fat, down there, and it wobbles when you shift it, and he knows lots of people have it. 

Except he's Iron Man, and his core is fucking Iron Man-grade, and his body should be Iron Man-esque too. Nobody without some proper abs, obliques and back muscles can pilot a half-ton, flying exoskeleton, so why doesn't he look the part? It's so far from fair Tony feels those traitors of tears stinging in his eyes again. 

It takes him a beat or two to come back to reality enough to realize what the slightly uncomfortable sensation in his pouch-area is. Steve is… squeezing. Squeezing it. Tony almost snaps at him to not _Give it even more attention_ , because at its core, this is humiliating and he doesn't need any more of that today. No, thanks a lot but no. 

"I love this," Steve says, squeezing again for emphasis. He looks pointedly at Tony through the mirror, and so too sees him open his mouth to argue, because he is quick to keep going after that. "I love every single inch of this, of you, and no pound of fat _or_ muscle more is going to change that. And if you want to do something about it, if you don't… if you decide you don't feel comfortable at all, then go for it. But just know that it makes no difference to me either way, because I'll be here no matter what. You're still the same man I fell in love with nine years ago."

Tony has to swallow, hard enough it makes a sound and something clicks painfully in his throat, but it's preferable to allowing the tears in his eyes spill or what feels like a _sob_ claw its way up his windpipe and past his lips. This would just be the cherry on top, wouldn't it? Crying like a hysterical high-school girl at prom night because he doesn't look the way he imagined he would. 

He forces himself to redirect his attention to Steve, whose hands now move up Tony's stomach, a sure, familiar touch that Tony leans into despite himself. There's nothing sexual about it, not really, even though he definitely qualifies as stark naked and his nipples are hard but that's only because it's too cold in here and he should've asked FRIDAY to turn the heat up ten minutes ago. 

No, Steve is, Steve is running his hands up, and then he's crossing them on Tony's chest, coming to lay over his only minimally (but _still_ , damnit) rounded pectorals that have lost the privilege of being referred to as such a while ago, because the picture you associate with the word isn't this. Steve has pecs, the Adonis. Tony, well. He's scraping by, so to speak. 

"Are you drifting off here or choosing to ignore me?" Steve asks, but it's not accusatory. His voice is soft, puffs of air still tickling Tony's ear, and his gaze travels from Tony's eyes in the mirror down to where he's stroking his thumbs up and down his skin. 

Tony smiles half-heartedly, a brief twitch of his lips that just shows he isn't even in the mood to pretend. Steve's crossed arms leave a window that bares the circular patch of scar tissue where the arc reactor once sat. Tony forgets it's there, most days, but today it's just another mark of imperfection and another flaw to remind him of how very vincible the apparently Invincible Iron Man really is. 

He's a scam, isn't he? Hiding behind fancy suits (gold-titanium-alloy and Tom Ford ones) when behind it, all that's left is this. Hell, all of him is a lie. He hasn't been a playboy in decades, either. That tagline he made up for himself on the go doesn't really have that wow-effect anymore. Not that Steve would mind if he started using it again long as he swapped out that one particular part with "shitty-but-trying boyfriend" maybe. 

Steve's too good to him, sometimes. Sometimes he's also irritating, and stubborn, and stoic and all those other things that annoy the living daylights out of Tony, but today – well, it's one of their more harmonic ones. Even now, Steve is smiling faintly, the crook of his lips a little sad perhaps, but underneath, it's patient and reassuring and everything else he knows Tony needs without having to be told. 

He's magical like that. Or maybe there is no magic. Maybe Steve has just learned to read his moods and thought patterns like Tony has learned, studied and picked his apart in turn until here they are, still understanding new things about each other but running like clockwork most days. Snapping together like a well oiled pair of cogs. (And why does that sound like it's got double meaning? Tony is trying to be sappy here.) 

Steve's smile changes a little, shifts, and it takes a moment for him to realize that the reason for the subtle reaction is himself, Tony, who now has a wry but genuine smile returning the other man's. He doesn't know when it happened, only that it has, and Steve might be indeed magical. Maybe Steve needs some sort of glitter-apparatus added to his shield, come to think of it. 

"We'll be running late," is what Tony says, finally, and his voice sounds rubbed raw for a reason he doesn't want to take a closer look at. "So, if you still wanna introduce me to that Korean place–" 

"I don't." 

Tony's train of thought, just beginning to operate at normal capacity again, promptly screeches to a halt as his smile falters. It's only for a second, though, because then Steve adds, 

"I want to be right here. With you. Right now. _Nobody_ but you."

The sudden urgency in Steve's voice and the intensity of his gaze overwhelm him. Tony clears his throat and forces himself not to fidget as he attempts to remain matter-of-fact. 

"What about the reservati–" 

Steve has the audacity to roll his eyes at him. 

"As if Tony Stark has ever cared about whether or not he shows up for a reservation in his life." 

Point taken. Tony shrugs. 

"I'm gonna take this evening and show you, in intricate and all-encompassing detail, how much _exactly_ I worship every part of you, inside and out," Steve mumbles, right by his ear, breath hot and close. Tony is suddenly acutely aware of how very naked he and how very clothed Steve is. "How's that sound?“

His mouth runs dry, and that's definitely not the cold that has his nipples (amongst other things) standing at attention. One of Steve's hands presses over the left nub while the other wanders down to do not what Tony very much hoped would happen but instead to yet again rub over his stomach and then pull him flush against Steve at his middle. 

Oh, _hello_ soldier. 

Tony grins – definitely earnest and most likely raunchy – as he looks up to get a look of actual Steve and not just his reflection. There's things the mirror just doesn't manage to capture. The heated gleam in his baby blues, the shade of his lips, the tinge of pink high up on his cheekbones.

The pure affection now written in his every feature that Tony sometimes still struggles to acknowledge is meant for him. 

"Sounds like a plan." 

It turns out Steve does not, in fact, need magic to do mind-blowing things. (But that's one of the things Tony already knew, didn't he?) 

**Author's Note:**

> anyone interested in gratuitous body-worship smut as a follow-up because i uhhh might be interested in writing it
> 
> if you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a short comment!


End file.
